


Part 1 - Make Way For Tomorrow Today

by RogersandBarnes107



Series: Bucky Barnes - Rebirth [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, post-thanos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogersandBarnes107/pseuds/RogersandBarnes107
Summary: As billions reacclimatise to life after the 'Snap', James 'Bucky' Barnes decides to joins their fold. Supported by Sam, Bucky enters the dating game, trying to find some semblance of the type of life Steve had left for. Everything, as always, does not go to plan ...Maggie has always known she is different. She never really fit in. Growing up in the shadow of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes comic exploits, Maggie wonders if maybe there is some truth to rumours after all. 20 years later, a chance encounter may just give her the answers she's been looking for.
Series: Bucky Barnes - Rebirth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554157
Kudos: 1





	Part 1 - Make Way For Tomorrow Today

The room was hot.

He had forgotten what summer in the city was like.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the sweat starting to make its way down over his body. Sweet; sticky. As he moved he heard a sharp rip.

_Great._

_Another one bites the dust._

The metal appendage that replaced what used to be his left arm had taken another victim, yet another shirt – and this one wasn’t his. Sam was gonna be pissed. He’d had many moons to get used to working with just the one biological arm still attached to his body. When he had been presented with this new addition he took it for reasons far larger than vanity.

He owed a debt; he had to fight; Steve was on his way. It had taken a little time for him to work out that Shuri’s re-creation had given him perhaps a little more girth on the left side than his right side had acquired.

_Well, that’s what you get with an arm made from the strongest substance on earth._

He looked over his shoulder at the bearded, bohemian artsy types and their organic foods. Eighty years ago, this had been a dance hall and his card had always been full. He couldn’t remember their names or faces it was just a kaleidoscope of different dress colour, hair hues as drove them around the floor. Once in a while during a slow dance he would look over to the bleachers – Steve. His too thin body, folded up underneath him scribbling relentlessly in his sketchbook … he realised he was doing it now. Looking over his shoulder, looking for Steve. He tried to shake it off. What was it his therapist had said? Complicated emotions. _Yeah, Lady. No shit_.

He shifted again, trying to keep his arm in a position where it could do no more damage to his outfit, thankfully disguised by the battered leather jacket. The music in the restaurant changed. Haunted voices, winter bells…

_Time, time, time… see what’s become of me …_

The summer sweat ran cold.

The ghost of Steve still sat somewhere behind him, unwilling to go. His absence was far more palpable than he wanted. He focused towards the bar and to the blonde in the black dress. He tried to keep his ever-fluctuating mind on the present. _What was her name?_ Jenny, Jane, Janine … he honestly had no recollection. He remembered mentioning to Sam it was time to move on with his life and next thing the revolving door of dates had begun. Back in the day he had too much choice, but now – getting them to stay til the end of the meal was a challenge. Just like the others, tonight hadn’t gone well.

_Shared life experience_ , Steve had said. He was damned right. Millennial women were more than a challenge to connect too. She _was_ gorgeous. That was plain for the world to see, but after almost sixty years of government sanctioned assassination, he wasn’t really equipped to turn on the charm. He tried. Ask about their jobs, family, hobbies. They’d ask about the Avengers, Thanos – Steve – asked what was it like to disintegrate…but he had nothing else to tell them. Nothing to offer. _I have nothing to offer… anyone._ Sam had suggested going to one of those places in Soho. You know, to just ‘jump back on the horse’ to use a tired analogy. If he were being honest, if this girl offered he wouldn’t say no. How’d that song go? _Kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long time…._ Maybe he was no good for anyone just now. A lingering doubt of what he was doing in the world at all still remained.

‘J’, as he decided to call her, was talking to the bartender…no. No. No, she wasn’t talking. She was flirting with the bartender. He resigned himself to an early night. He’d at least finish the whisky she was getting him… _if she ever came back to the table_. He was mentally ticking off his to do when he got back to Brooklyn, when he felt a chill go up his back. A draft entered from somewhere, he assumed the door to the premises, but it hit him so hard he wanted to look back over his shoulder …

_Steve?_

Before he had a chance to even channel that spectre, his eyes bust into a blur of sparkles that obscured his vision of J at the bar.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god - I am sooo sooo sorry. I am! I truly am. Look! I know I missed it and I know you’re pissed but I thought I would get there. Truly!! It wasn’t like last time, I knew I had leave – and I did! Look, I’m all done up – but – oh my god, I am so sorry, just before I left the Dean came in and someone has offered me a LOT of money to write a book about what happened upstate, and I got suspicious and was like ‘why me?’...”

He looked at the creature that had deposited herself opposite him. He was getting used to what style meant in a postmodern metropolis like New York but … this gal was something else entirely. Her dark hair was perfectly crafted to her head with feathers and diamantes jutting out at intervals. Her face was the same … what was that thing his mother used to say about his girlfriends? … ‘caked with make-up’. That was it. Her face was ‘caked in make up’ but that face could’ve been hung in a gallery – it was like a living canvas. The dark eye make up accentuating the blue of her large, round eyes; the red of her lips highlighting a smile that didn’t seem real. While all this glamour was orbiting her face, whatever she was wearing was obscured by an oversized, banged up blue overcoat. He thought it was like the one coppers in his day had worn. On her small frame though it was comical. She kept on talking, her expressions animated, her hands frantic -clearly lost in her own mind and he looked to the floor. Spilling out from under the coat was a mess of black and white sequinned tulle and two well-worn Dr. Marten boots. Next to her seat was a ratty black gym bag. He tensed when he saw it – he had dealt with plenty of guys who carried bags like that and what they contained. Something about her didn’t give off a cutthroat vibe though. He tried to tune in to the rest of her conversation.

“… and then I was like, well you can tell him from me that if wants to try and pull that shit, that I KNOW people. Like … I know THE person, actually, and until I meet with this ‘consultant’ for myself then I am…” she had caught his eye.

Something in him ran cold … or was it hot? Perhaps it was both at the same time? Her eyes dislodged something in him that he couldn’t quite make out but he sensed was vital to his self-preservation. _Those eyes …_

“Oh…my god. Oh oh oh my god. You’re not … you’re not Greg.”

There was a small cough from a table two parties over. A young man, tall and lean dressed in what had to be a tuxedo. She looked over to who he assumed was Greg. If this was Greg, then Greg was pissed. She continued her vivacious apology: “I am so so so soooo sorry. I just …it was the hair… I saw your hair and just…”

He looked over at the pissed off, well-dressed man. It was true. Both he and ‘Greg’ had similar short-cropped dark hair. His own had perhaps a few more greys than the perfectly coiffured Greg. He laughed – he’d only gotten his haircut today. A few hours earlier and he wouldn’t even be dealing with this. He thought losing the locks would exorcise The Winter Soldier – but he still felt the same. Still remembered everything. He became painfully aware that the living doll opposite him was staring. This he had become used to. Certain people became immobilized by the fact the Winter Soldier was no myth. The woman’s stare though was one of elation – as if she’d just discovered a fossil remnant or scientific anomaly. _Well, I fit both those categories_ , he mused.

“You’re …?”, she was trying to speak. Even frozen in speechlessness this dame had more personality than J at the bar. She tried again. “You’re…him. Aren’t you? I didn’t see it before but … it’s…it’s your eyes. God damn. You’re…”.

A voice piped up from his right.

“Bucky!”

It was He-Who-Was-Assumed-To-Be-Greg. It wasn’t an offer of information – it sounded like a command. _That’s weird_ , he thought. Both he and the Doll turned towards him. He decided to answer.

“Yeah. That’s me. I’m Bucky.”

The woman kept her eyes on Greg as she spoke.

“No – he’s …” She stopped. She looked straight into his eyes and he felt that unstuck feeling again. “James Buchanan Barnes? You are actually James Barnes?” she asked.

“That’s the name they gave me.”

If Bucky thought that her eyes would be his undoing, he was unprepared for a full assault smile. His heart picked up the pace as she beamed and shoved her hand across the table. He was particular to extend his right, not his left, hand.

“Oh my goodness, Mr. Barnes this is such an honour. I’m a historian at Columbia. You’re something of a specialty. I’ve read everything there is to read on you – I’ve even written some myself – I can’t tell you how honoured I am”.

_Honoured? Not the normal way people viewed a cold-blooded assassin_. He guessed this is what it would’ve been like for Steve in his down time. He tried to be as convivial as he could.

“Well, thank you Miss…?”

“Maggie. You can … you can just call me Maggie.”

“And you can just call me Bucky”

She giggled awkwardly – again it was far more appealing than anything J had done all evening. It sounded like skimming stones, tripping over the water. Greg had risen from his table, obviously wishing to get her attention. It had worked. She snapped to attention. “I’m sorry. I have to go – my livelihood depends on him not walking out that door. Again, I am so sorry but … so so honoured.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Maggie” – and with that she went to soothe the battered ego of Now-Confirmed-To-Be-Greg.

_Very Nice._

J had made her way reluctantly back to the table, obviously alerted by the woman’s odd appearance. She carried a carafe of Riesling. No whisky.

“So, who was that?” she whined.

He looked over at the couple. They had sat back down and there was high tension brewing.

“That…was Maggie. And that...” he pointed, “is Greg.”

“Oh. Soooo… what were you saying about Captain America? Like, I know you were in that African country but did you like… message or email him?”

This was the calibre of conversation for the rest of the night. He sighed at the futility of it all then laughed, making a mental note to take Sam off the matchmaker list.

Bucky was attentive, listening to everything the girl had to say, asking her questions but he couldn’t help trying to overhear how the strangely dressed couple two tables over were fairing. About an hour later he’d noticed Greg had gone, Miss … _or was it Mrs…_ Maggie was at the table on her own.

The blonde stood up, every curve hitting its mark as she rose from the chair. “I gotta go the bathroom and then I’m getting a cocktail. Do you want one?”

He didn’t. Even if he did, it was unlikely it would make it back from the bar. He would’ve been happy just to leave but the strange doll-like woman had piqued his attention. Chances are, if he said yes, J would be trying to jerk off the bartender for at least 15 minutes. That should buy him some time.

“Yes. Please - sounds great.”

With no emotion registering on her face, J sauntered off and he allowed himself to enjoy the view. Tables were starting to empty – the theatre crowds ready to catch slice of culture. Only a table and two chairs separated him from the forlorn woman. She reminded him of something – an opera or ballet he’d seen in Bucharest.

Pierette. The sad clown in her black and white.

“Hey”, he called. “How’d it go?” She looked up, not quite focusing. A thinker – Steve used to get lost in his own mind a hell of a lot, he knew what it looked like. “I take it, not great.”

She smiled – it was sad but polite.

“Definitely up there in my all-time, top five major screw ups.”

Silence. _What on earth do you want to say to this girl?_

“You …ah. You gonna be ok?”

“Oh yeah! Yes.” Exuberant but not so sure. “Yeah absolutely. He just needs time. And he didn’t call me ‘Margaret’. So… that’s positive”, she laughed.

“Things are bad when he calls you, Margaret?”

“Devastating.”

“My folks used to be that. If you heard a ‘George’ or a ‘Winifred’ – it was time to scram.”

“See – some things never change.” She met his gaze.

_Those eyes …_

“You guys been together long?”

“Uh, yeah. Almost…wow! Almost 20 years.”

“20?! Jesus, how old are you?”

She was bemused. Taken aback.

“Ummm…what do you mean?”

“You’ve been together 20 years? You look like you’re 30, if that.”

Maggie laughed. It was sincere. Joyful. It reminded him of another time.

_Another life._

“Thank you!” she replied. “I needed that. You’re very sweet but I am almost 40 – I’m 38”. Mental arithmetic ensued, “So, roughly the same as you. Biologically.”

He couldn’t even comprehend that. Always just called himself 100 but with his time out as the Winter Solider and the snap – she was right. _Holy Crap. 38 - ish._

“Huh! Who knew? But you look great for your age, by the way… is that a thing people say anymore?”

“Maybe to 106 year old men who look like they’re in their mid-30s.” A cheeky twinkle hit those grey-blue eyes. “But don’t freak out - 40’s the new 30, didn’t you know?”

He was happy to play along.

“ Good to know! Thank you …ah, see? That’s why these dates don’t work out. I still got so much to learn about these days.”

She beamed and he couldn’t help letting the edges of his mouth curl up when she did.

_Charming_.

She was charming. He hadn’t experienced that in at least half a century. These days they were fiery, pithy, strong but this one was good ol’ fashioned charming. A feeling of calm spread through him. The urge to look over his shoulder all but gone. It was disconcerting and pleasant all at once.

All of a sudden she sat up straight in her chair, her perfect posture making her ridiculous ensemble all the more comical.

“Wait! You’re on a date?!”

“I’m not sure what you’d call it. I’ve spoken more to you tonight than I have the young lady.”

Maggie moved down to the table in between them.

“You think coach took you off the bench too soon?”

“Honey, I got a whole different playbook to what’s going on out here.” There was that giggle again, dancing around his ears.

“Where is she?”

“She’s at the bar.”

“Which one?” Maggie craned around in her chair staring down the mêlée of Saturday night wannabes lined up at the bar.

“She’s …”

“No! Wait. Let me guess.” He watched as she looked back and forth at him, and the bar. She was concentrating, biting her bottom lip as she scanned him and then the bevy of beauties. She set her gym back down on the ground as she pointed.

“That one. Blonde. Hoop earrings who looks like she needs to pull a good brush through her hair. Figure-hugging dress…and what a figure. Daaamn!”

That was J. She’d got it.

“Impressive party trick.”

“No trick. I said, I’d read everything about you… not to imply you have a type but…”

“No please, go on.”

“I’ve seen pictures of lot of your ex…dance partners, shall we say. Well from Brooklyn at least”.

Bucky laughed at the phrasing – his brain trying to sweep him back to the same dance floor all those years ago.

“So. How’s it going? Your ‘date’?”

“Probably as well as your night's working out.”

Silence again. But not uncomfortable. Maggie studied him.

“What do you want?”

_Anxiety_. His chest clenched, muscles contracted. Only a small movement but it laid waste to rest of the left arm of Sam’s shirt. He’d only just been whining about the superficial nature of most of these girls and yet here is a real question and his first reaction was to bolt. He didn’t want to think about that. What could he say? What could he possible want? The things that he had done …he didn’t deserve anything to want it.

“Excuse me?”

“With blondey. What do you want? Like … I’m going to make a major assumption and guess you’re not looking at starting a family with her?”

He relaxed a little – he didn’t like how disarming she could be.

“No. I can confidently say that after this evening, I won’t be seeing her again. It’s my friend Sam. You see, he says I should …”

“Jump back on the horse? Get in the saddle? Sew your oats? All that jazz?”

He smirked – she was sharp. And funny.

“Yeah – something like that.”

Maggie surveyed the restaurant like a general on the battlefield. She pushed some loose pieces of hair back up into the architectural masterpiece on her head and pulled herself up to her full height. The feather in her hair, primming like a peacock.

“Ok. Ok, champ – what’s your success rate?”

“Ah…2023? Or 1941?Because they are VERY different numbers.”

“2023”

“I’m batting 0 from 16”.

“Really? Come on…”

“No, really. I’m…”, _just say it._ “I’m too ‘dangerous’. They don’t want me...”

“They want Steve.”

“Well…yeah. Say, how’d you …?”

“Ok. Ok. We can do this. This doable. So, if I pull this off - you owe me a favour, yeah?” The thought of seeing her again was a frightening prospect, yet he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like without all the frou-frou. His reply surprised even him.

“I am all yours.” _The smile, the eyes, the laugh._

“You may regret saying that –I just need you to go with whatever I do. Play along but stay quiet. The less you say, the better. Your motivation is that you don’t care one iota about me or my state of mind. Yeah?”

“Umm, sure… Have you done this before? Whatever it is you’re going to do?” Maggie had stood up and dumped her gym back on the table in front of him.

“Absolutely not…but I saw it in a movie once. Just going to put my own spin on it”. She smiled.

It was another art gallery moment. The anxious constriction in his chest was still there but it was beginning to become something else. It was a pain he almost enjoyed, if not endure. The light bulbs that swayed from the ceiling bathed her. She shone like that an avenging angel – like the one they had talked about at Mons. She was _so_ … and then he caught it. He knew that face; recognised those eyes. It was only a split second and completely unfathomable. There was no way that …

And then she punched him straight face.


End file.
